


dawn quarter to seven

by Anonymous



Category: UNIQ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5797345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wenhan always wakes up first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dawn quarter to seven

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [lanternfest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/lanternfest) collection. 



He always wakes up first, basking in the calm silence of morning, stretching fingers up into the watery light of the early morning sun. The air tastes fresh, like a new start. Wenhan blinks his eyes open, eyelashes untangling as he watches the shadowplay of leaves on the ceiling; the sound of the breeze stirring the branches of the old oak tree outside their former window. Beside him, warm breath trickles over the skin of his collarbones as Yibo opens his mouth in a sigh, nuzzling closer into his warm, tucked up beneath Wenhan’s arm. With the fingers of his right hand, he traces the dips and swells of Yibo’s ribs, the gentle beating of his heart, slow and steady. It sounds like happiness.

There's a bird trill, outside the window a flapping of wings and Wenhan doesn't have to check his phone, charging on the nightstand, to know that it's time to get out of bed. It's easier than it used to be, unwrapping Yibo’s arms from his chest, sliding from between the warm sheets to the air that, although not properly chilly, is newer as warm as his bed, only to turn around and tuck the comforter in around Yibo’s long arms. There's someone waiting for him, here in his bed after all. The knowledge is sweet, warm in his chest as Wenhan slips out of his pajamas and pads across to the ensuite to shower.

Emerging in a cloud of steam several minutes later, he slips into clean clothes, pausing to brush the soft blond hair out of Yibo’s closed eyes before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Mmm?” Yibo mumbles, not yet properly awake. His breath stirs the fine strands of his hair as they slip into his eyes again, tangling with his eyelashes.

“Go back to sleep,” Wenhan murmurs, trailing his fingers over Yibo’s cheek before he slowly descends the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky step, and turns the electron kettle on. From the window over the kitchen sink, he paused to watch the mothers and fathers walking hand in hand with their tiny four and five year olds, heading for the kindergarten at the end of the street. There are puddles on the sidewalk from last night’s rain, and Wenhan bursts out laughing when a particularly incorrigible little boy insists on splashing in each and every one with how bright red rubber galoshes, even when it's clear from his father’s posture that he's urging the little boy not to be late.

Wenhan remembers springtimes in the past, he with his blue galoshes and Yibo in green, taking the long way to school and getting scolded when the teacher called their parents about their tardiness, but it has been worth it. He smiles, taking four slices of bread from the breadbox and sliding them into the toaster.

The kettle clicks off, just the perfect temperature, and Wenhan laughs at having wandered off in his thoughts, reaching for the coffee grinder and cranking extra quickly to make up for his momentary lapse. The freshly ground coffee is soon in the French press, Wenhan pouring the water gently over the top before he sets the kitchen timer.

“Just in case I get distracted,” he tells the bright face, numbers winding round the edge; it doesn't reply but then again he would have been startled if it had.

The toast pops and he busied himself with butter and jam, arranging the slices on plates set side by side on the breakfast tray that Yibo bought him last year when he moved in; the surface is covered in the bright green and metal of old circuit boards and it makes him smile as the rich smell of coffee fills the kitchen.

The timer sings, a bright trill that can't compete with the birdsong earlier that morning, but it does its job. Wenhan slowly presses down the plunger and pours the coffee into two porcelain mugs. Yibo read somewhere once that coffee tastes better in porcelain and while Wenhan hasn't really noticed, he's happy to do something so inconsequential just to make Yibo happy. With the toast and coffee on the tray, Wenhan is good to go.

The bedsheets are even more crumpled now than when he left for the kitchen; Wenhan grins, thinking about Yibo’s subconscious fight against the morning, the way he somehow always manages to completely pull the sheets out from where he tucks them in so nearly every time he makes the bed. A single foot dangles over the edge of the bed, but when Wenhan steps to the side of the bed, a current of air caused by his motion follows, and the foot is quickly drawn back into the warmth of the covers.

“It's time to wake up,” Wenhan murmurs into Yibo’s hair—the only part of him visible above the comforter—as he sets the breakfast tray on the chair against the wall, since the nightstand is covered in a trailing mess of headphones, cellphone and empty cups. Yibo grumbles, but his nose is twitching at the aroma of coffee as he slowly worms out from between the covers.

First a hand emerges, and Wenhan laughs as he places the steaming cup in it, watching as it draws back, lifting to a mouth on a head that's curved up from the pillow. Even half asleep,Yibo is still graceful, not spilling a drop as he sighs around the rim of the cup. Wenhan sits on the edge of the bed, receiving the cup again from Yibo’s hand and setting it back on the breakfast tray. Yibo waits until the coffee is safely stowed before a long limb reaches out to snag Wenhan by the forearm. Wenhan makes a token resistance before he succumbs to gravity, lifting the edge of the comforter to crawl back into bed.

Yibo nestles his face into Wenhan’s chest, grumbling at the fabric of his t-shirt getting in the way; Wenhan laughs and sits to pull off the offending article of clothing, tossing it at the bureau to keep it away from the wrinkled sheets.

“You’re warm,” Yibo hums into Wenhan’s skin and they lie in bed for a while longer, until Wenhan can feel Yibo’s stomach grumbling.

“The toast is getting cold,” Wenhan says, and Yibo sighs before sitting up, pulling Wenhan with him. The bird is singing again, and they can see it just outside the window, perched on the branches of the old oak tree. Yibo smiles, sitting there in the tangle of the comforter; Wenhan wraps his arms around his waist as they sit, watching the bird sing, breakfast growing cold on the tray.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [The Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TAko3RH0bk) by The Weeknd.  
> This story was inspired by [this fanart](https://twitter.com/Aeae7700/status/635828645513158657). [*](http://i.imgur.com/sQld5Kp.jpg)


End file.
